All Things Considered
by reading
Summary: Dean remembers his father drunk.


_All Things Considered _

_I wasn't sure what to do with that exchange between the boys at the end of Nightmares. And I'm still not sure._

_Takes place after Nightmares. Dean's recollection of his dad drunk._

_xxxx_

Dean actually had a small scar from the one time his father had hit him. It was tiny, unnoticeable really, just at the corner of his mouth. But he still saw it sometimes. And he knew his dad did, too.

xxxx

It had been a back-handed slap, hard across his face, and it had sent Dean reeling, slamming into Sam, the ever-present shadow to his older brother. Both boys had fallen, Sam hitting a table on the way down, Dean on top of him, mouth throbbing. There had been dead silence for a beat before Sam had started to scream, three-year-old indignation and hurt shattering the stillness. Dean had rolled off his little brother, hand to his lip, tasting blood. His own tears were frozen, just under the surface as he raised his eyes to his father's. The shock and betrayal of the blow had been more painful than the slap itself.

The look on his father's face was unlike any Dean had ever seen before – horror and revulsion and grief.

"Dean." John's voice was hoarse as he reached out for his older son, and Dean scrambled back, away from his father's hand. John watched, stricken, as the boy tried to get space between himself and his father.

Sam's howls were unabated, and John turned toward the younger child.

"Hey, Sammy," he whispered, rising unsteadily, moving to comfort the boy.

"Don't." Dean had jumped in between his father and his brother.

"Dean, I…"

Dean pulled the still sobbing Sam further out of reach. He kept one eye on the man in front of him, while he tried to soothe his brother.

"Did you hit your head, Sammy?" Dean tried to find a bump under Sam's thick hair.

"Yes," came the sniffled reply. "You pushed me," he accused.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam's head. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry," he said.

Sam sniffed again.

"OK." He forgave so easily.

Sam looked at Dean's face. He reached out a hand and touched the blood on Dean's lip. "You have an owie, too." Sam's voice started to waver again at his brother's hurt. "Daddy…"

"It's OK, Sammy," Dean interrupted. He still wouldn't look at his father, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Dean, come here. Let me look." John said it softly and Dean could hear the slur underneath, but he could hear the regret, too. He shook his head. Sam's eyes went from his father to his brother.

"Dean." Pleading. "I'm sorry, son." Dean could hear the pain in his father's voice, even thickened as it was by the alcohol. "Please."

Dean's throat tightened, and he struggled to maintain what control a seven-year-old had over his emotions. He kept his face averted, lost, not knowing where to turn.

"Kiddo." Dean flinched when his father's hand touched his elbow, but he didn't move away.

John tightened his grip slightly, and gently pulled the boy closer. Dean came, but still he didn't look. His father put a finger under Dean's chin and tilted his face up. Dean couldn't avoid it any longer, and he glanced apprehensively, defiantly into his father's face.

John had dug an old handkerchief out of his pocket and was focused with the single-minded intensity of a drunk on wiping the blood off Dean's mouth. Sam crowded close, watching, a small hand resting on his father's knee.

When he'd finished, John said softly, "I'm so sorry, Dean."

"It's OK, Dad," he mumbled. But it wasn't.

"No, it's not, Dean. It's not OK." John's voice shook. "It will never happen again." He steadied himself. "I promise."

He pulled Dean all the way into his arms, and after initial resistance, Dean let himself be held, pressing his still stinging face into his father's chest. To the side, Dean felt Sam wriggle close, wanting some of the hug, and Dean shifted over as his father opened his arm to the other boy, pulling him in.

_It will never happen again_.

Dad had promised.

xxxx

It was years before Dean was aware that John even took another drink. Years of Dad sometimes angry or frustrated or sad. Years of tightly controlled emotion and measured words and gentle hands.

And Dean had believed.

xxxx

Dean had been 15 the next time he saw his father drunk. Dean had been out with some other boys in the neighborhood, hanging out at the playground, flirting with the girls, trying cigarettes, nursing a beer. He got home later than he should have, and he tiptoed quietly into the living room, sure he'd find his father, remote in hand, frown on his face. But the chair had been empty, and he'd eased into the room he shared with Sam, half-way expecting to find his father there, waiting for him. It was a relief that there was only Sam, sound asleep in Dean's bed. With a sigh, he grabbed his pajamas and went down to the bathroom. He could move Sam when he was finished getting ready for bed, and maybe even be asleep before Dad got home.

He was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard the sound of movement out in the front room. Rinsing and spitting, he pulled a t-shirt on over his boxers and headed to the living area.

"Dad?"

John was trying to get the chain on the door, fumbling and cursing. He turned.

"What are you doing up?" he asked.

Dean said nothing, just stared, his heart beginning to pound in his chest.

"Well?" John took two unsteady steps toward his son, and Dean took a careful one back.

"I was reading," Dean lied. "I just…"

"Come lock this door." John made his way to the couch, stumbling slightly. Dean took a long way around, hooking the chain, and turning the deadbolt. He watched his father warily from the door.

"What are you doing up?" his dad asked again.

"Nothing. I was just…"

"Don't lie to me. Come here." John dropped onto the couch.

Dean moved slowly across the floor, coming to a stop in front of his father.

John stared blearily up at him. "Have you been drinking?" he asked.

"No, sir, I…"

John grabbed Dean's wrist and jerked him down, bringing the boy suddenly to his knees. "You smell like smoke," he said accusingly.

Dean swallowed, knees smarting, tugging slightly against his father's grip.

"Dad…"

"Were you smoking?" John was blinking angrily at his son, trying to focus. "Don't lie to me, Dean."

"Dad…" Dean hated the tremor in his voice.

"Just tell me the truth," John demanded.

Dean could hear the anger rising in his father's voice, and his stomach clenched, bile rising.

"I…"

"Dad?"

Sam stood in the doorway, sleepy and uncertain, taking in the scene before him. John's eyes snapped to his younger son, and then back to Dean, crouched in front of him.

John blinked at Dean and the boy saw his father's gaze clear. Shaken, John dropped the slender wrist in his grasp like it had burned him and Dean tensed to spring away. But he stopped, the look on his father's face—shock and self-loathing—unsettling him and making him pause. Slowly he sank back on his heels, waiting.

John Winchester stared at the boy at his feet. Dean knelt silently, eyes wary as he watched his father. Gingerly, he rubbed at his wrist, careful not to move too suddenly.

"Dean?" Sam had taken a hesitant step into the room, not sure what was happening, but feeling his heart start to pound in reaction to the tension between his father and his brother.

John swallowed convulsively, his own heart hammering in his chest as he realized what he'd almost done. The look on Dean's face was the same one John had seen almost eight years before, a devastated, confused expression that had haunted his dreams. And for a moment it was the 7-year-old in front of him, heart broken by his father's mistakes. But just as quickly as it came, that impression left him and he was faced with the 15-year-old reality on the floor at his feet, eyes guarded, yet miraculously, still giving his father a chance. Hesitantly John reached out a hand, eyes intent on Dean's face, not wanting to startle or frighten his son, gauging the boy's reaction.

Dean made himself hold still, forcing himself to trust his father as the gap closed between them. _Dad had promised._ John put his hand on Dean's shoulder, gently squeezing. He nodded at his son, eyes bright with tears of regret and thankfulness.

"Go to bed, Sammy," John said softly.

Sam's head swiveled from his father to his brother. Dean stayed where he was, but he turned to look at the younger boy.

"Night, Sammy," he said, reassurance in his eyes and his voice.

Sam nodded. "'K. Night."

When Sam was gone, Dean's attention went back to his father. John's hand dropped as Dean stood. He wouldn't meet his son's eyes, putting his head in his hands.

Dean hesitated in front of his father.

"Go to bed, Dean."

"Yes, sir." And still he waited.

He held a hand out to his father.

"You should, too," he said.

John's head came up slowly. He looked at the hand first, then at his son. He didn't deserve this. But he reached out and took it, the offer of forgiveness and help, heaving himself to his feet.

"Yeah."

"Good-night, Dad."

"Good-night."

xxxx

In the years that followed, it happened from time to time, John stumbling home drunk, belligerent. But he'd never again come so close to forgetting his promise.

And in spite of the disappointment he'd felt every time it had happened, Dean had learned how to deal with it, eventually recognizing the triggers. It wasn't anything so obvious as the exact anniversary of his mother's death or her birthday, but it was often around those times. Or sometimes it was close to Sammy's birthday or even Dean's own when the weight of John Winchester's grief drove him to alcohol in an attempt to drown the pain and the loneliness and the helplessness.

That second time, when Sam had interrupted the confrontation in the living room, had been enough to clue the 11-year-old that something was wrong. He'd been alert to John's hangover the next day and the careful way his father had treated his brother in the days and weeks that had followed. Sam had tiptoed around his father and pestered Dean to tell him what had happened until, out of patience, Dean had snapped.

"He was drunk, OK, Sammy?"

Dean whispered it fiercely to his brother in the darkness of their bedroom.

"He was drunk," Sam faltered.

"Yeah. OK? So shut up about it." Dean was still trying to find his own footing with his father, and he felt restless and out-of-sorts.

"Why?"

"I don't know why," Dean said shortly.

Sam was quiet for a long moment.

"Did he hurt you?" He asked it so softly Dean almost didn't hear him.

Now it was Dean's turn to falter.

"N-Nah, Sammy. He didn't hurt me. He didn't know what he was doing, OK? He grabbed me 'cause he was pissed. He didn't mean it." He rolled over toward his brother, and in the moonlight that filtered through the blinds, he could see Sam curled on his side, eyes watching Dean.

"Dad would never hurt us, Sam." Dean said it seriously. "OK?"

Sam blinked at his brother, eyes glinting in the dim light. "OK," he whispered.

xxxx

John had come home drunk one last time. There had been no hiding it from Sam this time and the crushing disappointment of his youngest son had shamed John into never drinking or being drunk around the boys again. He chose instead to leave the boys on their own when the need to drink became too strong. Better to keep them safe and at a distance, he thought, than risk hurting either of his children.

The first weekend his father had disappeared had been the scariest time Dean remembered in his life. There had been rare occasions in the past when John had been gone overnight on a hunt, but he'd always checked in, always called. Three days without contact from his father had terrified Dean, and he'd struggled to keep things together for Sam's sake. John had ultimately returned, but he'd been hurting too much to notice the effect even his temporary abandonment had had on his sons.

Once he'd realized that it wouldn't be permanent, Dean had coped with those times that John felt the need to go drink himself into oblivion. It was rarely more than once a year, and the rest of the time, John Winchester was the best father Dean thought a kid could have. If he was stricter than Dean was sometimes comfortable with, the bow-hunting skills and fighting training made up for a lot in Dean's mind. Although he didn't understand it completely, Dean did know that it was sadness about his mother's death that was the underlying cause of his father's bouts with depression, and he was willing to give his father the grace he needed. He didn't know what else to do.

But as time had passed and Sam had gotten older, the disappointment Sam had felt at this flaw in his hero, had become anger and disgust by his father's inability to control himself. So, when their father went one of his rare benders, Dean had borne the brunt of his father's disappearances and Sam's adolescent rage. Trying to keep the household—such as it was—running without their father, while Sam stormed and sulked, had been a burden, but one Dean had shouldered without much complaint.

When Sam had left for college, John had stayed sober for a long time, drinking only sparingly, often with his oldest son at his side. When John actually had gotten drunk the last time, Dean had been with him, working steadily on his own drunk after a hunt that had gone spectacularly wrong. They'd saved the civilians, but each of the Winchesters had thought the other dead at one point in the evening.

They'd staggered back to the hotel, arms around each other. Dean had passed out first, and when he'd awoken the next morning, he'd found himself stripped to his underwear and under the covers, his father snoring loudly in the next bed. He'd taken the aspirin and drained the water glass on the bedside table before he'd rolled over and fallen back to sleep.

When he woke up again, Dean saw his father sitting on the other bed, pale, but with a grin quirking his face as he turned to meet his son's eyes.

"Let's not do that again for awhile."

Dean groaned his agreement, dropping his head in his hands.

That had been the last time he'd seen his father drunk.

xxxx

"I'll tell you one thing. We're lucky we had Dad."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"Well. It coulda gone a whole other way after Mom. Little more Tequila, a little less demon hunting. Then we would've had Max's childhood." Sam paused. "All things considered we turned out OK. Thanks to him."

Dean looked at his younger brother.

"All things considered."

xxxx

_The End._


End file.
